


We Probably Should've Talked Sooner

by flamingburningfandomtrash



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: And angst, But honestly not too much angst its mostly fluff the angst turns out to be miscommunication hehe, Cute, F/M, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Marriage Proposal, Sans (Undertale) Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:41:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23775535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamingburningfandomtrash/pseuds/flamingburningfandomtrash
Summary: In which Sans is a nervous wreck who accidentally breaks your nose...
Relationships: Sans (Underfell)/Reader
Comments: 25
Kudos: 139





	We Probably Should've Talked Sooner

If someone came up to you and told you to explain Sans in one sentence, you might have to think for a minute. You might have to sit back and think. Of course, the first thoughts to come to your head are of your first impressions of him, whenever you saw him.

“Pretty tough, but he needs a lot of caring for.”  
“Punny, with a heaping handful of sarcasm and sass.”  
“He’d fight everyone in this room and then some for a joke.”

Maybe after you got all that out of the way, you could think harder. What is he REALLY like. For you. When he isn’t scared, or hiding inside himself.

“He’s really sweet to me, but maybe not for other people.”  
“Little cuddleslut, I’ll give you that.”  
“Depressed, but always open for a hug and a nap.”  
“Imagine an ex-mafialord, all retired, who will live and die for mustard.”

And maybe, just maybe, none of those are how he would describe himself. He thinks he could describe himself in one simple sentence.

“doesn’t matter jack shit about me, kid: i live for my girl.”

~~~~~~

Sans is… worrying you, lately. 

He’s had depression episodes, of course. When you stay in with him, no matter how cranky or silent or teary he is, because you know he couldn’t bear it if you left. And, you always have a looming fear that if you leave him by himself during one of his off days, he’d off HIMSELF. Surprising way to die, at least for him, you think. For all the fights he picks and rude comments he makes, you mean. Frankly, you’re surprised nobody’s killed him long before now.

Sometimes you feel like the mom friend around him, despite normally not caring about your friends’ antics. Sans has four- no, five “modes”, as you call them. Sides of himself, some might say. You’ve had the pleasure of seeing all of them, with your time with him. 

Typical Sans, the one he shows in public: he’ll fight you if you so much as look at him (or you) the wrong way. 

Funny Sans; he doesn’t care if you’re busy or not: everything you say will be a dirty joke, a dark joke, or some corny pun the moment it comes out of your mouth. 

Depressed Sans… he just doesn’t care. Period. 

You’ve only see him get into Mad Sans mode a few times, and every time you’re positive you never want to see it again. He works himself up, harder and harder, whether at himself, or at you, or at someone who just happened to be the unfortunate soul who put him over the edge. And then he turns into this sort of self-imploding tornado. You always, ALWAYS think he’ll EX-plode. But he never has. In those moments, he just HATES himself. And he’ll tell you, too. How much he wants to just die, to stop trying, to kill and be killed. Scary. 

Last, but certainly not least, is Flirty Sans. You would gladly shove your foot up his ass (if he had one), but even you can’t deny you like it just a LITTLE. He’ll get all touchy-touchy and make weird pervy comments until you smack him over the head. Even if you are dating, and have been for a little over two years now, he’s always finding new ways to weird you out.

Recently, though, you don’t know how to categorize him. Like I said: you’ve seen his depression mode. But this isn’t that. He’s just… nervous. Weirdly quiet, watching you like he’s trying to analyze each and every move you make. He looks like if you looked at him too long, he would snap in half under your gaze. He’s been asking weird questions, too:

“you really like me?”

“Uh… would I be dating you if I didn’t?”

“heh, yeah…”

Or, “you don’t think i’m clingy, do ya?”

“I think so. But I love it. Most attention anyone’s ever given me, baby boy.” He looked away, a little bit of sweat beading on the top of his skull. You grinned wide- he never admitted it to you, but you could always see it in his face that that was by far his favorite nickname. 

“their loss, then,” he muttered.

Or, “i don’t weird you out, right?”  
“Sans, no, you don’t weird me out,” you sigh, exasperated and amused. That’s the third question he’s asked tonight: you give up on trying to read your book. “But you’re weirding me out right now. Are you okay?”

“i’m all good, i was just askin’,” he shrugs, defensive. You’re never going to get anywhere this way.

“No, I wan’t to know what’s wrong. Are you alright?”

“nah, i’m fine. just curious, i guess.”

“Baby…”

“’s fine, i’ll stop buggin’ ya.”

You frown as he teleports who knows where. Your bedroom, probably. Maybe there’s a sixth mode you didn’t know about before called stuttering, blushing, defensive mess. Hopefully he isn’t like this for long. You aren’t sure you’re comfortable with it, just yet. With a small sigh, you pick up your book again and shake your head. It will pass, everything always does. He has to tell you at some point.

~~~~~

Well, MAYBE he’ll tell you. 

MAYBE it will pass. 

He’s sweating when you ask him about a Netflix movie choice, a whole week later. You want to kiss him and smack him in the face simultaneously. This new… Dork Mode, you’re tempted to call it- has been going on way too long. He’s adopting a new odd quirk per day, and the simplest questions get him sweating like he just ran a marathon.

“So… is a nature documentary too much?” you ask, sighing.

“i- will you- n-nah, go ahead.”

That’s one of them. “Will you-“ ing. You think it’s one of the weirder speech impediments you’ve heard. He doesn’t do “like” or “uh” anymore. Just “will you”, “will you”, “will you.” Will he snap out of this? you want to ask. But no, not yet. You want him to tell you what’s wrong before you start pestering him like that. Maybe whatever he’s worried about is worth the nerves. You click play on the bird documentary, settling into his side. He would normally wrap an arm around you or nuzzle you, or something, but he doesn’t anymore. Not since Dork Mode initiated. He just keeps his hands in his pockets, fiddling with whatever old receipts or snacks he keeps in there. You used to stick your hands in his pockets to see what he has in there, but he keeps them so occupied with his wringing hands you don’t get a chance lately.

Something dawns on you while the British guy on TV goes on about birds of paradise. Sans is HIDING something, isn’t he? Something important. Something he feels guilty about. You feel like a dark cloud has come over you, as you think about what it might be… maybe he’s trying to kill himself. Wouldn’t be the first time you’ve caught him so close to it. But, no, he would either be in depression or mad mode then, he wouldn’t be like this. 

Maybe… the thought comes at you like a cold stab through the center of your chest. The sensation is so sudden and heavy and real that you cough.

He’s cheating. Isn’t he. You go through what you know, all signs pointing harshly at yes. Not wanting to touch you, that nervous look in his eyes when you look at him too long, sweating so much. That “will you”- is it “will you break up with me”? He hasn’t kissed you since this mode started, you notice with another pang. When you ran away earlier at his nickname. Maybe he didn’t like it like you thought he did. Maybe- you tense up. Maybe it’s what this… other person calls him. That thought provokes an anger and a pain and a nausea that makes you want to throw up here and now. Sans could be someone else’s baby boy. 

“you ok?” he asks, softly. The first genuine thing he’s said since the beginning of this.

You stand up abruptly, the cold feeling in your chest spreading over you and making each limb feel like lead. You look at him for a second, hurt probably evident in your eyes. He stands, too, silent as you are, confused.

“I…” you can’t form words. Maybe you’re completely wrong. But this hurts. You need a minute. “Just… need to go to the bathroom.”

“oh,” he says, dumbly, staring at you for a long second before sitting down slowly. “uh. ok.”

He knows something’s wrong, he KNOWS, you know he knows. That makes him giving up hurt that much worse. The cold spreads over your eyes, and you just walk your stiff lead self into the bathroom. You’re going to need a looooong nap. Where better than on cold, hard tile, by yourself? You can’t think of a single place. Because the thought of going back outside hurts much more than the back pain you know you’ll feel in the morning.

~~~~~~

Sans kneels outside of the bathroom, a frown on his face. He screwed this up big time, didn’t he. Screw it, and he thought he could keep a secret for longer than a week. It just made him feel worse for dragging you through all this. He should have told you a long time ago, he knows that, but it’s just so hard. He couldn’t stand to lose you. As his friend, as his girl. He slumps his forehead to the door, with a *thunk*, then glares at himself as best he can. He just wants you to be happy, and he’s trying so hard to get the words out, but he’s a coward. Afraid of what you’ll think of him.

God, who knows.

This could be it.

That makes a stab of icy pain come over his soul- similar to the one you felt earlier- and he clenches his hands in his pockets. God, he’d better say something soon.

~~~~~~

You eat breakfast- milkless cereal- in icy silence, pain from the night before still making you feel lifeless, unable to breathe. Sans keeps asking you if you’re alright, and all you give him is a simple nod of your head. Lies. You know he knows you’re lying. You just don’t have the guts to say anything outright, not just yet, not when you don’t have evidence. You just have a strong hunch and an aching chest. You want to just snatch his phone from him and filter through his call history, his text messages. Hell, his email. You want to tell whatever bitch is trying to steal your Sans that you’ll meet them outside Denny’s at three in the morning, if that’s what it takes to keep him. You’d go to the ends of the Earth to keep him. That thought causes unprompted tears to spring to your eyes, and you stand and turn away to take your bowl to the kitchen before giving Sans a chance to notice. 

He follows you- he knows you too well, he knows by just your posture and the occasional soft sniff that you’re in tears. But you won’t give him the satisfaction of comforting you. If he gets that, then maybe when he leaves he’ll know he left you in a good place. You want to make him feel guilty. It’s a selfish desire, you know as much. But it doesn’t stop you from shrugging his hand off your shoulder, the ice crawling to your eyes again and freezing the tears before any more can fall. 

“Not now,” you mutter, coldly, stalking into the other room. What a way to spend a weekend, you scoff to yourself. But maybe the laugh was to hide the choke in your throat. Tonight would be a good night to break out a drink… or five. 

~~~~~~

The day goes just about as smoothly as the morning did. The atmosphere chilling and thick with tension: you could cut it with a knife. You could feel his eyes on your back, when you hid behind a book, or when your head is tilted back, eyes closed, as you listen to music. Even while you slept. It was his eyes, the hard, warm fingers trailing over yours when your eyes were closed, your own tears on your favorite books, that nearly broke you.

Let him go softly, you tell yourself. Let him go softly. Not like this. Don’t make his last memories of you to be like this.

Still, though, the cold in you refuses to yield to the false warmth you’re trying to produce. You just pull some blankets over you and hide your face under them, staring into the dark behind your eyelids. Sans could be- maybe IS- someone else’s. Period. End of story. Still hurts to think about, though. You stare at the floor, eyes aching with the effort of keeping them dry. Sans has long given up asking if you’re alright. You’re not. You should say something, you know you should. 

“So. Um. You’re-“ no. Not that accusatory, you chide yourself. You still don’t have any evidence to that claim. “Are you cheating on me?”

His eyelights shift from worried to angry and defensive in a moment. Hard and small, or maybe gone. You went back to staring at the floor, so you have no clue.

“no. hell no. why the hell would i do somethin’ like that?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug. “That’s why I asked.”

“you don’t seriously- god, no wonder you- no. i’m not.”

“Okay.” If anything, you almost feel worse after not getting a real confession out of him. 

“no, i’m dead serious, why the f*ck would you think that.”

You look at him again. His eyelights are back, tinged with red, hard and small and intense. 

“You always look nervous. You’re sweating all the time. You keep trying to ask me something, but you don’t tell me the hell what it is.” Your voice is dangerously close to breaking, while also close to being downright accusatory. “You haven’t hugged or kissed me for a week and a half,” you add, quietly, at the end. It comes out more hurt and less angry than you intended. 

After a solid thirty seconds of Sans’ silence, you feel something hit you HARD, smack in the nose. You yelp in pain, shrinking back and covering your face in case of more blows. Nothing happens, though you think your nose is bleeding now. You wipe it on your hand- yup, that’s blood. Did he just punch you in the face?!

You start rattling off profanities and indignances, how dare he, what the hell was that, that hurt- but you see through watery eyes that Sans is gone. You don’t even know what he hit you with. You feel around on the floor, you’re sure you left a box of tissues here somewhere, and your nose is really starting to go at it. You hit a small box, and pick that up instead. It has blood on it- you think this must be what hit you in the face.

Abandoning the search for tissues, you stare at the box. Rounded edges, able to fit snugly in your palm. If you didn’t know Sans better, you’d say this was a box for a ring. A wedding ring. But you do know Sans better, and surely he wouldn’t throw a WEDDING RING at you after a fight, then vanish. That’s. Well. Not his style, if you know anything about him. You crack it open: sure enough, though, a little ring is inside it. You left out a soft “oh”, wiping your eyes on your palm as you get a better look. 

Gold, with a single blue stone in the center, small and simple, but sweet. The exact thing you would want, if you were to pick. You try to tug it out of the box, but the folded paper-velvet bottom holding it up resists. With a little yank, you finally manage to pull it out. But attached to the bottom is a note. It’s folded up rather tightly, and tied onto the end of the ring with what looks like dental floss. You smile, even through the confusion. Leave it up to Sans to tie dental floss to a fancy ring like this.

You tug the note free, setting it on your lap momentarily to slip the ring on your right ring finger. A perfect fit, you think. Just snug enough not to fall off, but not so tight you couldn’t pull it on and off without any trouble. Though you have no clue how he got your measurements. Next, you look down at the note. After picking at the edges with your nails and carefully smoothing out each crease- you don’t want to tear it, the handwriting is so small and careful, and all so delicate. The actual size of the note is maybe the size of half a notecard. It reads:

“hey, baby. if you’re reading this, you found the ring. i’m either dead and ya found it, or i chucked it at’cher face and ran off. probably that one, though.”

You smirk, glancing at the blood-stained box. Yyyyep.

“i’m writin’ this the day after i got your ring. know i’m not going to be able to say any of it to your face. i’m gonna try hard as hell, though. you watch. i’m gonna slip and fall on my metaphorical ass a million times try’na talk to ya. i’m probably not even in the room wit’cha as you’re reading this. hey, know that i know that i’m a coward when it comes to ya, ok? don’t judge future me too harsh. he’s really tryin’ his best, whatever the hell he’s doin’.”

Sans…

“and i bet he’s doin’ somethin’ stupid as hell. freaked you out, i bet. scared the hell outta ya, who knows. he’s tryin’ his best to show ya how much he loves you.”

You wish he was here right now, from wherever he teleported off to. You could really stand to tell him you love him, too. 

“see, he’s bad at sayin’ it. I’m bad at sayin’ it. show, not tell, y’know? so hear him out, ok? watch him. he’s tryin’ to show ya so hard it’s gonna make him tired. he’s gonna be exhausted by the time this is all over. he loves you. I love you, baby. i love you from my skeleton ass to my skull, have since i metcha. and i know i get sad, or i get mad at myself, or at you, and i know i’m not half of who ya deserve to be with. but at the same time i don’t trust anyone else with ya. so i thought, hey. just ask her to be yours.”

He’s not… is he?

“will you marry me?”

You sit back, shocked- that’s the last sentence on the page, there’s nothing on the front or back. Just an open ended question you never expected to be asked. You swipe at the crusty blood on your nose with a sleeve, wincing slightly when it aches, but feeling everything come easier than it has been lately. Warmth has finally returned to your ice-and-lead body. With slightly trembling hands, you pick up your phone and shakily punch in-

Vertababe- “sans.”

idiotsanswich- “too much?”

Vertababe- “it’s perfect.”

You jump when he appears on one end of the room, arms crossed- he won’t look at you, he’s staring at the floor. You think he looks… scared. His eyelights are pinpricks in his sockets, he’s staring at the floor, rigid and still as a statue. His first words are much harsher than you thought they’d be.

“you just say that to get me to come back, or what?”

You stand up, crossing to him. you half-expect him to turn tail and run, but he doesn’t. He just stands perfectly, harshly still, sweat beading on his skull again. 

“No, it… it’s really so perfect.”

“so, uh…”

“Just waiting for you to ask, bonehead. I want to hear it from you."

The look on his face is one you won’t forget any time soon. Those tiny eyelights turn to look up at you, terrified of what he must think is an inevitable rejection. 

“i… will you… will you marry me?”

“Yes,” you whisper, quietly but getting loud. “Yes, yes, yes, YES!”

He freezes for a minute, before you’re suddenly knocked backward by the biggest hug he’s ever given you. You land on your back, him hugged tightly around you, crushing his skull into your chest. He’s hugging you like it’s the last day he’ll be allowed to do it. You smile brightly when you get over all the falling, so bright it almost hurts.

“Hey, fiancé,” you giggle, unable to stop yourself. 

“hey, baby,” he chokes out, squeezing you tighter. 

You manage to sit up and shift into a sitting position, hugging him back, planting comforting little kisses from the top of his skull down to his cheek. Something in his demeanor is softer, more desperate even than you’ve ever seen before. It’s like he’s a completely different person. he scoots closer to hug you more properly, hands gripping the cloth of your shirt, arms locked tightly around you. He’s whimpering lightly, whispering the three little words over and over, as if making up for two years of barely saying them. 

“i love you, i love you, i love you, i love you, i love you, i LOVE you,” he rasps. “i love you so much, sweetheart, i’m so sorry…”

At least now you know he was saying it all along. Just, not out loud. In his actions. Maybe you saw it and didn’t even need him to tell you.

“I love you, too,” you say, much more calmly, though still kissing him all over the top of his skull. “Even if you broke my nose, I’ll always love you.”

He looks up, alarmed- “i broke your WHAT.”

You shake it off- “We can heal me up later. It’s not that bad, I’m still running on adrenaline. You’re stronger than you look, though- heh- you should try out for little league.”

He frowns slightly at the shorty joke, but you make up for it with another little scattering of kisses. For a guy who really likes the rough stuff… he melts into your loving touches, holding you as tight to himself as he can. 

“you’re seriously sayin’ yes? like, for real saying yes?”

“Yeah, I’m for real saying yes.”

“like: you’re actually gonna marry me… that yes.”

“Yes, I’m actually going to marry you.”

He looks at you- your face softens at his huge smile, the way his eyelights are shifting from hearts to circles, big and soft. 

“Well, what were you expecting me to do?”

He looks at you like YOU’RE the idiot here: “thought you’d say no. after you thought i was cheating i thought that was it. thought i was dead.”

“What’s the worst that could have happened if I said no?”

“thought you’d, i dunno. leave.”

“Leave?”

“yeah. like, not be with me anymore. if you didn’t want it.”

You nuzzle him again, him leaning into it. God, of course. He was nervous you would LEAVE, of course he was! Wakes up with nightmares every other night that you already have. His hands were in his pockets… oh, to keep you from rooting around. From finding the ring. He was trying to ask you this whole time. Your cheeks get red; you went and accused him of cheating on you while he was trying to ask you this. And he says HE doesn’t deserve YOUR conclusion-jumping self.

“I’m sorry I thought you were, y’know, cheating…” you mumble the last part, embarrassed. He just chuckles, catching your lips in a light kiss. 

“i got a real bad way of tryna tell ya things, ’s not your fault.”

You kiss him again- and again, and again, until you’re back on your back, him on top of you, arms on either side of your head, kissing you into the floor. His eyelights seem stuck like hearts now. 

“was wakin’ up from nightmares, y’know,” he says, between kisses, lowly. “and i was always thinkin’, ’s over today. imma wake up back in snowdin. but you were always there, every damn time. still are. i just… i know i want this.”

After a few long, careful moments, you sit up- again. You may be a little disheveled, but Sans thinks right now you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Those eyes, filled with light and promise at the thought of being his- his WIFE… that puts an even broader smile on his face to match yours. His wife, that’s what you’re going to be. He’ll be your husband. Your smile, your eyes, your jokes, your patience, your laugh, your EVERYTHING will be his. And he’ll give himself to you, too, whatever scraps of good he’s got in him. 

You both simultaneously pull back in to squeeze one another tightly. Locking your arms around each other, silent kisses landing all over. Souls spilling over with how much you love one another, how much you’ve craved the physical affection this past week. You simply can’t seem to get close enough.

“I love you, always have,” you murmur, to the side of his skull. “So scared I was gonna lose you today.”

“never, babydoll… never.”

~~~~~~

Cut to three months later: you, Sans, and a short stack of papers that you’re both covering in signatures, birthdates, and numbers. Yeah: no wedding for you. Not many people to come, anyway. Your current plan is to sign the forms, mail ‘em off, and skip town for a bit. Maybe not the most… romantic thing you could do. But neither is the little metal splint you have to wear on your nose to set the bone. Sans feels a little pang of guilt whenever he looks at it, but you just laugh and wrinkle up your nose to make it go up and down. You thought Sans had Dork Mode, when you didn’t even realize how big of a dork you are yourself. 

“that’s the last of it,” he says, kicking back and tossing his pen on the table. “we’re married, baby.”

You finish two more hasty signatures, set down your pen, and squeal. You punch one fist in the air and kick your legs and basically turn into a little human tornado of excitement. Of course, you stop cold when you feel Sans- undoubtedly in flirty mode, by the warmth of his hands- sliding his hands under your shirt and holding your hips.

In a mock-stuffy voice, he says, “you may now kiss the bride.”

With that, he kisses you, grinning broadly through it, just like you are. 

You just KNOW he’s going to do that a million times-

and you’ll enjoy every second of it.

**Author's Note:**

> i love these two so diddly darn much
> 
> hey quick announcements  
> -i'm trying super hard to keep up good deadlines on Blueberry so gimme a little grace there thanks eheheh...  
> -tell me if im posting too much lmfao


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